The whirring of machinery, the clicking and clacking, the pressing and smashing, a hundred, a thousand mechanical arms crushing and twisting. Howling. Deafening.

Progress.

Walking through this factory, through a thin aisle, surrounding on both sides by pistons, pressing, reaching for his throat, his walking path no wider than half a foot.

Mark Flynn.

Suddenly, he stops, just beside at a machine. One large rectangle twisting within, devouring long lines of fabric, nylon, string... Tiny, sharp fingers weaving within...

And at the other end, a soft thunk, every few seconds... Flynn breathes in the aura of the machine.

He then turns to the camera.

And smiles.

“Hey Massy. Nice job on that last promo. Way to amp up the quality. I actually really liked about half of it."

"Y'know, the parts I said."

"The good parts."

"Who would've figured that Mastermind promos could be entertaining? All he needed to do was lift segments from better people's promos."

His hands rise from his side to a chugging, furious machine. Spitting. Processing. Flynn’s finger travels slowly up its side. And presses a large bright red switch.

The machine... Slowly silences... And dies...

“Anger management, huh? You think I'm angry? You think you've made me angry?"

Flynn rolls his eyes, as the smile remains, happy. Earnest.

“Massy. I think you’re misinterpreting this situation. I think, as to be expected, as I’ve previously stated, you lack the mental faculties to comprehend what’s going on around you. Which based on that rugby-oriented aside of yours about NOTHING WHATSOEVER... that last promo of mine seemed to really knock you on your ass. So much so, you can't see straight and seem to think it's given you the psychological high ground, it being the fact that you're coming off as more and more of a feeble-brained buffoon with every errant thought you decide to spew. It seems to have clarified just how fucked you'll be in the ring facing kicks and wrestling holds, when my words alone are enough to apparently give you brain damage."

"Honestly, it seems like The Master of Minds is the one who's under my control, since you can't seem to say a word now without bringing up how angry I am..."

Flynn winks.

“Unless, you’re testing me again? Unless, like you claiming that you were only pretending to not know how a cage match works, this is some convoluted scheme of yours, to only pretend you wanted me to be angry when you knew all along I wasn't, another part of your illogical master plan to become X-Treme Champion before 2025... Just Adorable. Like a child on a playground. Clueless and desperate to seem in control. Changing the rules as you go along, only to see how ineffective your 'Mind Control' methods are... Small and insignificant.”

"Seems like you're in a bit of a creative rut. Let me try to give you a hand."

“Let's lay all the information out on the table. So you can fully understand everything going on here.”

“I’ve been ambushed by you thirteen times over the course of my now 38-day long championship reign. I am now the 9th longest reigning X-Treme Champion of all-time. You have tried to stop this reign from coming to pass multiple times."

"I'm not angry about the fact that I'm facing you in the ring. I'm looking forward to it. I'm eager. Hungry... Salivating."

"I’m going to get my chance in the ring to avenge those offenses. Those attempted thefts. Physically. By breaking your body in as many places as I can for as lengthy a period of time as I desire.”

"Like Hammurabi's Code. You tried to steal from me. So now I'm taking your arms."

Flynn reaches into the output end of the machine, and pulls out a black t-shirt, with a message on the front that reads...

I MASTERED AVERY KAIN'S MIND

Flynn's face contorts in confusion.

"Who the fuck buys these, anyway...?"

Flynn peers into the shirt, as if the answer itself is in the fabric. Then shakes his head. A riddle with no answer. He wads up the shirt and throws it away, as one can assume most people who foolishly purchased had also done."

“I wasn’t upset with your use of the term ‘salvo' being associated with wrestling instead of literal military action, either, like you seem to think. I was disgusted that you think anything you’ve said this far is worthy of terminology associated with warfare.”

“Were this a battle of wits, Massy, you wouldn’t have taken one piece of land. You wouldn’t have claimed one casuality. You wouldn't have scuffed one SINGLE CELL of your opposition's boots. The closest thing that came to an insult? Was insinuating I was dense for pointing out what a pathetic little no-talent loser you are."

“This isn’t a war, Massy. This is a massacre. This isn't tactical combat. This is a fully-armed special-ops military operation.”

“Launching a raid on a special-needs children's school.”

"No survivors."

"Do you get it yet, Massy? The word 'salvo' doesn't irk me. Nor does the misuse of the literal interpretation of a word."

"What irks me is how innocent and pathetic the words you spew out of your caveman face hole are... And how Ill-fitting the word 'salvo' is to describe them. How you thought from the beginning there was a chance you might end up with my belt, given the obvious disparity between our abilities."

"Get the difference? There are acts of war, there are physical annoyances, there are mild annoyances to be humored and dismissed, (see children, Bobby Zi), there are insect-sized pests to be ignored (see Mac-Bry)."

"And beneath that? Beneath the lowest conceivable level? Is you. Essentially, the non-existent. Those unworthy of any kind of response whatsoever."

"I gave you a modicum of acknowledgement in putting forward the effort to squash you like a mosquito, with your underwhelming ringwork and failure to win any match against a real opponent."

"And now, fluttering yet immobile, helpless still, tiny head crushed, with a pair of broken wings, all you can do, with your rugby testimonials and your mind control, is prove that you weren't even worth the energy it took to lift my hand."

"And crush you underneath it."

"You don't anger me. You disgust me."

"Of course that isn't all you've gotten wrong. You've managed to fuck up a lot on a factual level this week."

"Correcting you on a few extra points you've made..."

“This belt hasn’t gotten heavy, Massy. It’s gotten comfortable.”

"My reign isn't over, Massy. Although, your language about your efforts to end it betrays how fucked you know you are."

"You're asking me for the belt. Begging me to hand it off. Trying to convince me with your logical fallacies and pleading desperation to give the belt to you."

"Do you know why, Massy?"

"Because the question of who's going to walk out of Warfare the X-Treme Champion? Is something you really don't have asay in. Is just about entirely up to me. We both know it."

"And I made my decision 38 days ago. I'm not losing to some whining unworthy puke like you."

"To clarify that contradiction you seem to have just fabricated completely, I do want respect, Massy. But I don't care how many times you say you respect me, when your behavior indicates that you don't, I'm going to beat respect into you. Until you respect me... or until you head is cracked open like an egg."

“And finally... I'm not angry."

"Not at all."

“I’m furious. I’m enraged. There is a very subtle difference."

"An angry man attacks wildly. He wears himself out. He makes himself vulnerable, leaves openings to exploit."

"If I was doing that, you'd have talking points beyond 'Wow, you're angry, I must be winning!' and 'Rugby'."

"Instead, an enraged man channels his fury into single-minded annihilation. Every strike delivered with a venomous hatred, an unending loathing behind every attack. Every thought dedicated to the painful, agonizing demise of his opponent. Like a Kodiak grizzly that tastes blood. No thought of what just happened. No thought of what's going to happen. The mind's only inspiration in that moment, to bite deeper, until he feels a sweet snapping of bone in his jaw..."

"And believe it or not, Massy, not to question THE MIND CONTROLLER'S understanding of psychology... But the way to bring a bear down? Nay, the way to stave off a bear's attack?"

"Is not to piss it off. That tends to make things worse."

"You see, Mastermind, we seem to be playing two different games, for the same prize."

"The goal of your game seems to be twisting any emotional response I have, or lack thereof, into proof that you are controlling my mind, whatever the hell that means."

"The goal of my game is to break your fragile neck into vertebrae shards, then as you're drowning in a pool of your own blood, as a torrent of red gushes down your throat and you choke on your own life source..."

Flynn's hands reach up, fingers clawing around an imaginary wall...

"I'll calmly climb up the wall of the cage, get to the top, and then climb down the other side."

His hands slowly lower, his head crossing above them, as he imagines the sweet taste of freedom from the ring.

"Guess which one gets you the win in a CAGE match, Massy? Can you guess which one will put the X-Treme Title around your waist when the stipulation for the match is ESCAPE-ONLY during a CAGE match?"

"Hint: it's not fucking mind control."

"Nor is it closing every promo by whistling like an idiot."

"Nope, the guy who who's winning MY belt this coming Wednesday, is the guy with superior abilities in the ring and a larger utilizable wealth of knowledge."

"And sorry, Massy. But on both counts? That's me."

"You're technically a 2-Time Ark of the Covenant Champion, something you decided to put on a t-shirt for some reason, as if you yourself were aware that this is the peak of your tragically underwhelming career, and that there will never be a need for a Mastermind t-shirt that says '3-Time Ark of the Covenant Champion.'"

"I've, on the other hand, held the tag titles, held the World Title, beaten the best of the best, last week I pinned the XWF Universal Champion, Azrael Erebus."

"Abilities? Advantage Flynn."

"You've lost your last two matches, Massy."

"Ignoring your pathetic excuse of a Shove-It, I've won my last three."

"Momentum? Advantage Flynn."

"And again, Mastermind. You've made it clear through your performance in the ring. You're not good enough to tangle with anyone marginally talented. Let alone me."

"I didn't tell you this to hurt your feelings. And I didn't tell you this because I expected the sheer power of my words to send you running. The words complement my actions. I told you this because it's the truth. Because when you're trapped, limbs broken, bleeding from the skull, asking 'WHY?' So you know why. Because you asked for it."

"I'm not giving you my X-Treme belt. Cuz there's not a fucking world where you earned it."

"You think half-assing a few ambushes and then challenging is enough to throw me off-kilter?"

"Fuckhead, I only function off-kilter. This week, I've been in my element from start to finish."

Flynn reaches his fingers into a slit on the side of the machine… And pulls out a long slip of paper… That contains the message of the Avery Kain t-shirt, backwards.

The machine is an industrial strength t-shirt press.

"To sum up."

Flynn pulls a sheet of equal length from his tights…

"You weren't good enough to beat apparently the weakest member of your Trios team last week."

Slides it into the slit…

"You weren't good enough to win a title that didn't have a champion at all yesterday."

Flynn’s hand reaches up for the big red button.

"And tomorrow? I'll try to put this in a way you can understand..."

Flynn presses the button.

"This coming Wednesday..."

The machine whirs and clicks alive, material is pulled from the line above. And just as quickly, stops…

"On Warfare..."

Flynn reaches into the press and pulls out a shirt. The front of which is Flynn’s face, delivering a smile and pistol-wink at the viewer. It reads…

You’re fucked.

”T-shirt slogan? Advantage Flynn.”